


Solace

by beknighted



Series: Pages in the Wind: Orlo/Reader [2]
Category: The Great (2020)
Genre: A little bit of angst, Count Orlo - Freeform, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Orlo Once Again Needs a Hug, Orlo x Fem Reader, Orlo x Reader - Freeform, Reader-Insert, Spoilers, The Great TV Show, hulu's the great, the great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beknighted/pseuds/beknighted
Summary: (Spoilers for Episodes 6 & 7) At the suggestion of Catherine, the reader pays a visit to a drunken Orlo, in quite a state after killing a man.__“Sometimes we’re different from what we thought we were,” you said, wishing you'd stayed sober, so as to speak comforting words with more convincing eloquence, but here you were. “That certainly does not mean we’re bad. Or wrong. We just come to know ourselves a little better.”“To know ourselves,” Orlo echoed, his voice breaking, and he looked down at where both of your hands held his. “You are very wise.”“And you are very drunk.”“Sorry.”“Don’t be,” you said, meaning it. “I probably should have waited to confess my love to you when you weren’t."
Relationships: Count Orlo/Reader, Orlo/Reader
Series: Pages in the Wind: Orlo/Reader [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771351
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	Solace

When Catherine sought you out in the dead of night, she seemed surprised to find you awake, still finely dressed in your bright evening colors, and pacing a looping circuit about your room, staring at everything and nothing. You were equally surprised to see her, framed in the doorway. Your friendship was a distant and circumstantial thing, formed wholly around your shared love of reading and dislike for dull games on the lawn; you were already alight with anxiety, and her arrival fired it into fear. Either something was wrong, or she needed something from you. 

“Y/N,” she said, her hands folded calmly at her waist. “I must speak with you.” 

You stopped pacing, doing your utmost to present her with a friendly smile and probably failing miserably. “Of course,” you said. “What about?” 

“Our mutual friend, Orlo.” 

It was as you suspected. 

Not long ago, Orlo had arrived back far too early from his journey to the front, his face bruised and bloodied, his spectacles broken, and his eyes completely bereft of their usual brightness. He'd looked very small at the base of the long marble steps, with a distinct slump to his shoulders—he, who could endure near-constant abuse from Peter and his ilk without the slightest change in posture. At the sight, the world had seemed to shrink around you, and you had run to him in the glossy light and embraced him where all could see (something the two of you had generally avoided). But he had hardly noticed. His mind was somewhere else, hovering or brooding in the darkness of a single moment, and when the story had been immediately extracted from him in the less-than-delicate inquiries at the court, it became apparent that he’d killed someone in self-defense. A Swedish soldier. 

You realized that you were yourself at that very moment imitating his absent gaze, and that Catherine had been speaking, and had gently touched your arm to draw you back to the present. 

“He’s not well,” she said. “I mean, he’s taken up _drinking_. I am generally not one to meddle in friends’ habits, but that does seem to be a violation of one of his prized principles, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Yes,” you said, swaying a little, but you'd already known this, smelled it on him a few days ago. Long ago, when he’d been especially tired and less self-contained, Orlo had admitted to you that, even aside from his general disgust at the thought of living in a mindless haze (like so many of the people they rubbed shoulders with here, trying to drown themselves), his father’s drinking habits had almost ruined them. If the weakness was heritable, as it often was, he had never wanted to inflict that same pain and disregard on anyone, including himself. 

“Well,” Catherine said, looking at you searchingly, for you were very quiet. “I’m worried about him. And, I confess, I gravely need him. There’s been an outbreak of pox among the servants—” 

“What?” 

“—and I am counting on Orlo’s help to convince Peter that he needn’t burn them all alive,” said Catherine. 

You were struck by how much of the peril of their situation was contained in her eyes, a sort of muted horror, as though she would herself be set ablaze with them. That she cared at all for them filled you with an earnest respect. Apathy was generally the rule, and empathy the exception. 

“Against my instincts, I have been allowing him privacy,” you said, quietly. “He didn't seem to want company.”

“He’s with Velementov right now, and I daresay you’d make far more comforting company than he,” said Catherine, with the smallest of smiles, and you realized that you should have counted on her observant nature to divine the tentative reality of your relationship with Orlo. Then she sighed. “I don’t mean to be deploying you like this. I _am_ worried about him, as are you, clearly.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For coming to speak to me,” you said. “It was kind.” 

“There’s something else,” Catherine went on, slowly, and she sat down on one of your chairs. “Although I could hardly blame him if he’s told you already.” 

“Told me what?” 

Catherine tilted her head. “You know.” 

“Know—?” 

“We’re planning a coup to overthrow Peter,” she shrugged, with an alert casualness that almost made you laugh, despite it all. You sat down heavily opposite her, staring at the floor—it all crystallized with a certainty that made you wonder if you hadn’t already known, somehow. Orlo’s heightened anxiety. The great deal of time he spent with Catherine. You were overwhelmed by a strange mixture of relief and worry, and something like pride, that he was finally acting on his seething discontent.

“Why tell me?” you said, for now you were drawn into the thick of it, the danger and the intrigue. You wanted nothing more than to run to Orlo and give him the tightest, most sympathetic hug of his life, that he had carried this burdensome secret for weeks or months. “Why trust me with this?” 

“Because I want you to join us,” said Catherine. 

“I am duly flattered by your consideration, but I—” 

“Don’t have anything to offer? That is more or less what Orlo said of himself when I first solicited his help,” Catherine said, steepling her fingers again. “On the contrary, I think you’re clever, you have few enemies, you’re on genuine speaking terms with at least a few of the ladies—which is more than I can say, as you know—and you care a great deal about Orlo, so you were bound to be involved eventually. Have I missed anything?” 

“Who else is involved? Besides him.” 

“My maid, Marial.” 

It was your turn to smile. Oh, it would almost surely fail, but it would be spectacular. “You are very brave, Catherine, and I admire you.” 

“Thank you,” said Catherine. “Another reason for you to join our numbers.” 

“I—I think I’ll go speak to Orlo, as you suggested.” 

She rose briskly to her feet. “At the very least, I hope we can be friends. I’ve been so distracted by all this watching and allying and plotting that I think I have neglected you a little.” 

“Not at all. I try to avoid notice.” 

Catherine paused and turned when she reached the double doors, absently tracing the ornamentation on the panel with one finger and regarding you with serious blue eyes. “He’s really very fond of you. I think if anyone can dispel a fog of confused guilt, it’s you.”

At this, you weren’t quite sure what to say, your mind being rather foggy itself, a thousand thoughts all tangled and unfinished. Perhaps you were forsaking your usual manners a little, for Catherine went off without further remark from you, but she was odd and would understand. And she would make a considerate and thoughtful friend, if that was indeed what she wanted, and not simply another instrument for her own devices. As for Orlo—

She was right. You set off to find him. 

He was as utterly sloshed as you’d ever seen him, lying on his back and staring despondently at the ceiling in the midst of a clutter of papers, silk, and red firelight. Not far away, the massive shadow of Velementov was sprawled and snoring on the floor, and you thought Orlo might be dozing off as well, but he must have heard you come in. He shot upright and seemed to try to scramble to his feet, slipping on his own tights. 

“Fuck,” he said. “I—”

You closed the door sharply behind you. “Don’t try to get up. Where’s the vodka?” 

“Someone drank it all. Possibly us.” 

“Possibly you.” 

“Possibly me.” 

As you always did when Orlo was at his most vulnerable, you sorely wished that you could whisk him far from the court and all thought of it, stow him somewhere with green hedges and lawns full of sunlight and books and beyond all possible harm, but he could accept no such quiet life. He looked up at you almost pleadingly, and you knew that he didn’t want you here, like this. You'd asked him earlier today about his new companionship with Velementov, and he'd— 

"Sorry I snapped at you earlier," he said, rubbing his temples. "Rude of me. Very."

Without responding, you found the bottle, and their two flasks. It was a finer variety of vodka, and there was enough left for you. 

“Which flask is yours?” 

Orlo squinted. “The fourth one to the right.” 

You picked the second one and just hoped it wasn’t Velementov’s, and refilled it with what remained. Then you sat beside what you considered the only real gentleman in the whole of the court, and your dearest friend—verging on something else, something that as yet lacked a proper word but filled up your heart with an intensity of emotion you’d long considered yourself beyond. Orlo was now slumped and captivated by the silhouette of his hands against the fire, likely still wanting to stand and possibly flee, but not trusting his balance. You knew you would stay as long as he would. You should have come earlier. 

“Catherine sent you, didn’t she?” Orlo mumbled, his usually crisp speech sounding woolen in his mouth, and he frowned. 

“She did. I think she wanted me to talk some sense into you.” 

“And is that why you’re here?” 

“No.” 

“Then why?” 

When you turned back, you realized Orlo was looking at you with his dark and glittering eyes, for the moment unreadable. You uncapped the flask and tipped it into your mouth, drinking all of what remained in one go, the fire of the vodka burning your throat and your mind. You coughed when it was gone. 

“Because I think I might love you,” you said. “And because I’m joining your crazy fucking coup.” 

Even Orlo’s wide-eyed expression was slower than usual, gradually appearing on his face like breath on a mirror. The cuts and marks from his ordeal had healed, but so well did you know his face that you could discern the tiny scar. It was the scars of the unseen variety that belonged to more lasting damage. He closed his eyes. “Might be hearing things. You definitely—that was you that said something, a moment ago, right?” 

“It was.” 

“Could you please say it again, just in case?” 

“I love you. And I’m joining your crazy fucking coup.” 

“I think I will pass out now.” 

You reached for his hand with both of yours, and he opened his eyes, and gave it to you. His skin was hot and clammy as you laced your trembling fingers with his. You’d long ago sworn silently to yourself that you would share his fate, and now it looked like that fate might be a gruesome death, but what the hell? All was bliss in the apparently pox-ridden court of Peter. All was bliss in war-ravaged Russia, where gentle men had to plunge knives into people’s throats.

Alarmed, you realized Orlo’s eyes were filling with tears. 

“Shit,” you said. “I'm sorry, Orlo. That was not part of the plan, it just sort of came out. If you want, we can entirely forget I ever said it, and maybe discuss all this mad coup business in the m—”

“How could you possibly love _me?_ ”

Oh. That bit. 

How to avoid betraying how very wretched you felt, at the thought he at all considered himself unlovable?

“Well,” you said, “I haven’t exactly made much of a secret of it.” 

“But, I mean, _still?_ After I—after—” 

You hadn't had much to eat today, so the drink was already starting to go to your head. “Orlo, you could kill fifty men and I’d probably still be unashamedly pining after you.” 

“It’s not just that,” he slurred, wrinkling his nose. “I am a changed man. I didn’t—I think I may have—” 

“Enjoyed it a little? Taking life?” 

Without stopping to wonder how you understood, Orlo’s face silently begged you to rescue him from this conclusion. You imagined it for a moment, if the trajectory of his life had led him to love the interminable sharpness of steel more than that of words, and it was almost frightening: a man wholeheartedly devoted to anything, especially death, could be frightening. Something told you that Orlo’s reeling mind was trying to construe this as a necessary transformation, for the good of a just movement that was silently dismantling Peter’s rule, and that more blood would have to be spilled before the end. 

“Sometimes we’re different from what we thought we were,” you said, wishing you had stayed sober so as to speak comforting words with more convincing eloquence, but here you were. “That certainly does not mean we’re bad. Or wrong. We just come to know ourselves a little better.” 

“To know ourselves,” Orlo echoed, his voice breaking, and he looked down at where both of your hands held his. “You are very wise.” 

“And you are very drunk.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” you said, meaning it. “I probably should have waited to confess my love to you when you weren’t.” 

“Did I return the favor?” 

“When?” 

“Just now. When you said—whatever it was you said.” 

“No, you sort of started crying.” 

“Oh, right. Shit. Well,” Orlo said, sniffing in a fairly dignified way, all things considered. He was about to speak, but Velemontov snored so loudly that both of you inadvertently giggled, and then looked at each other, gripped by a galvanizing self-awareness, as though lost in a shared dream or madness. The vodka was somehow still burning in your stomach, or maybe that was just how you felt, in that second, gazing at a hurting and disheveled Orlo in his moment of crisis, with the whole world sleeping silently around you. You found that you were both intent upon each other’s lips, perhaps tormented by a sudden warm vision of all that could be said or done before the world (or Velementov) awoke again, and that shared madness—as if that of mayflies, of people with only a day to live—deepened. 

“We probably shouldn’t,” you said, softly. “Being utterly without composure, as we are.” 

“Once again, you are very wise.” 

But you were already leaning in, and this kiss was different from the other, gentler ones you had exchanged in secret and in quiet: it didn’t stop when you took a breath, and his hands were more sure of themselves, and you ran your own fingers through his hair and along his neck, at which he made the softest of noises into your lips. His hands were pressed delightfully low on your back and pulled you closer until he was literally surrounded by a sea of skirts, and the simple fact of his boldness made you dizzy. Your teeth pulled brazenly at his soft bottom lip. Breathless, you had, on instinct, reached for the buttons of his vest, when you both drew away a little at the same time. 

“I do not want to be drunk,” he whispered. “When we—well.” 

“Neither do I,” you said. 

“My god,” Orlo said, and actually laughed, at which you felt your spirits lift. “We are probably the only people in the court that wouldn’t just—fucking—do it. You know? Right now.”

“We still could.” 

“But we shouldn’t.” 

You nodded, such that your foreheads touched. “You and I are too idealistically romantic, that’s the problem.” 

“I don’t think it’s a problem.” 

You laid your head on his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his neck and taking a deep, shaky breath. The heat under your skin began to dissipate, but you knew you wouldn’t go back to your chambers. Not this night, and likely not the next. Your heart, which had been wildly racing, steadied, and you sat like this, listening to the fire pop and creak as the shadows grew bluer and darker, and you wished Velementov would go someplace else. Orlo’s breathing slowly became deeper and you thought he was asleep, and had a mind to drift off yourself, but before you did you softly kissed the skin of his neck just below his ear. 

“You’re joining the coup?” he whispered suddenly, and he wasn’t asleep after all. 

“Yes. I said that, didn’t I?” 

“You did. Did you mean it?” 

“I meant all of it.”

When light was streaming through the windows, dust motes darting it like sparks, the servants found you both splayed asleep on the floor, fully-clothed and still holding each other, with an empty bottle and flask beside you. You woke at the sound of them whispering and moving about, and your head ached (doubtless Orlo would fair worse than you)—both from the vodka, sleeping on the hard floor, and the prospect of all that still had to be done before you would ever sleep soundly again. But his eyes opened and found yours at once, and there was, for now, no trace of fear in them, no shadow of the forest where he’d almost died or the man whose life he’d taken. He just smiled, abashedly, and you smiled back. 

“Ow,” he said. “Good morning.” 

"Yes. It is.”


End file.
